


A Catavino Christmas

by MelanijaParadis



Series: The Stelliform Chronicles [3]
Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: A tropical Christmas, Azores Islands, Coquito confessions, F/F, Inspired by a Maltese enoteca
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28315128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanijaParadis/pseuds/MelanijaParadis
Summary: In the days leading up to Christmas, Mel gets drunk on coquitos in the Azores Islands, professes her undying love to Abigael, and deals with the morning after—and then some.
Relationships: Abigael Jameson-Caine/Mel Vera
Series: The Stelliform Chronicles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813234
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25
Collections: CW Charmed Secret Santa 2020 Event





	1. An Independent Woman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Black_Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Black_Cat/gifts).



> This is my contribution to CW Charmed's Secret Santa 2020. Merry Christmas and happy reading!

1 An Independent Woman

_8 pm, Two Evenings Before Christmas, Catavino Tea & Wine House, Rua Lima Whitton da Terra, Madalena Village, Azores_

Sipping her third coquito in as many hours, she savored its heady kick, as she glanced down from the vino’s covered balcony window, tipsily admiring the light festival a couple of stories below. Streams of local townsfolk converged upon the cobblestoned corridors, bearing crimson banners and glass-enclosed candlelight as they marched onward to welcome the fast-approaching Christmas holiday.

_Two egg yolks. One can of evaporated milk. One can of cream of coconut. One can of sweetened condensed milk. Half a cup of white rum. Water. And who could forget—ground cloves, cinnamon, and vanilla extract…_

If not for Macy and Harry taking their little daughter, Maya Madalena to Manchester to visit Carter’s descendants, she’d be stuck at home making coquitos in Vera Manor’s kitchen. As it were, Mel now found herself in the Azores Islands, house-( _or was it condo?)_ sitting Macy’s property, inherited through Dexter Vaughn’s Portuguese-African-Azorian family line. The sixty degree weather was a welcome change from Seattle’s permanently rainy, downcast weather, and she could venture out into the local marketplace and explore her surroundings, unlike at the Command Center, where she spent countless hours underground attempting to decipher the cryptic (and altogether unwieldy) Book of Elders.

_But something—_

_Or someone—_

_Was missing._

Her eyes fell upon the dark marble countertop several feet away, which had a wide array of Aztec cylindrical hot chocolate slabs wrapped in ornate parchment— _red, green, blue, brown_ —briefly reminiscing in her coconut-fueled haze of a certain pixie-esque, porcelain-visaged lady who hailed from Sussex, England…Mel licked her lower lip subconsciously, recalling the female’s cropped dark hair, and affinity for tight, form-fitting burgundy blouses, not to mention a certain leather jacket she’d grown _particularly_ fond of in the past few months.

Her _Iris._ A moniker for Abigael, derived from their favorite O’Keefe painting, _Black Iris II,_ a depiction of damask petals shadowed in miasmic silvery grey, coupled with the subtle nuances of a stormy midnight. A suitable metaphor for the flawless perfection that was _her_ human body, smooth as marble, cool, yet somehow tender to the touch once she had delved beneath its steely, once-unforgiving veneer.

Of course, their last meeting had been under the cerulean smog of SafeSpace’s bar, seated at the high cushioned faux leather stools, the woman at her right smiling and conversing in a sublime sort of way, her gold-encrusted choker glimmering in the modern sconced lighting entrancingly, almost as if to beckon her closer. _Kryptonite or King Midas’ touch, she didn’t know the difference, nor did she give a damn._ Never mind Abigael was the leader of everything dark. _Mel sensed brightness in her—something hopeful—whatever that something was._

_The light in me sees the light in you—_

Mel closed her eyes, a zen, yogic mantra interrupting her melancholic nostalgia, indented hibiscus-printed mat, bows, hand-clasps and all, as she took another long sip of her milky beverage.

_Had it really been months since their last ‘namastes’ and ‘shavasanas’?_

It was, quite possibly, a natural culmination of their shared experience brewing potions together during afternoons past, the brunette’s wrist brushing across her melanin own, for an infinitesimal second or two, as she herself would gasp. _Was it on purpose?_ Probably not, she surmised, watching ( _and secretly admiring)_ the Sussex lady’s rapt attention to her singular scientific efforts to defeat the latest monster in question. _Was it Taydeus? Or that one rogue Kyon? That one escaped Tartarus scorpion?_

Later that afternoon— _or was it the next day—or week?_ her brain grew foggier with each imbibement, recalling how Abigael had appeared in the solarium bearing two yoga mats, one for herself, the other for Mel, the brunette wearing the shortest skin-tight shorts and low-cut Lululemon sports top Mel had ever seen. “ _Sit, love—"_ and all it took was a whisper to bring her to her knees—

Mel brushed a tear away, watching young couples celebrate the festive season below.

_We could have been something beautiful—_

She stared into her transparent glass, its crown-to-lip surface reflecting distortions of the tropical, mystical world about her, as she continued in her tipsy reverie, enraptured in the visual of Abigael flexing her musculature upon the mat months before, her telltale smirk dissolving into previously-undiscovered sweetness as rain pelted the roof of Vera Manor that sultry Seattle evening, hearkening back to her recent read of Tennessee Williams’ “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof”—

 _“—Abigael,”_ Mel completed in a whisper, as she downed the remains of her coquito, continuing to rotate the shot glass between her index finger and thumb, noticing a few seconds later, a new shadow—a _presence_ within the reflection, with a burgundy hue and a—

“ _Fancy meeting you here, love—”_ as Mel gasped, dropping the shot glass on the table, which rolled off and shattered on the floor below, though it was too loud for people to notice, with far too many drunk on the dance floor to care.

_8:30 pm, Catavino Tea & Wine House, Rua Lima Whitton da Terra, Madalena Village, Azores_

Abigael took a cursory glance of her admittedly loud and somewhat uncouth surroundings. She’d fancied herself ahead of her time, having placed a tracer on Mel since their chat at SafeSpace’s bar, but wondered if it was as great an idea as it seemed at the time.

 _Fact:_ Mel wasn’t in Vera Manor’s kitchen brewing potions.

 _Fact:_ Mel was on a tropical isle, far away, over the holidays, imbibing copious amounts of alcohol—

_In the time it took for her Sussex self to disappear…surely a woman so lovely as Mel was already taken…right?_

The brunette swallowed hard. “ _Mel._ Where’s your girlfriend?”

“You…” Mel’s voice trailed off, her eyes growing large and positively glistening with joy.

Abigael rolled her eyes. “Mel, _love,_ I mean it—who brought you here? We should get you home—”

“I brought _myself—_ I’m an independent womannnnnn…..” Mel was beginning to slur her words. “I love you, Abigaelllllllll…your accent…your tight burgundy blouseeeeeee…the crinkle of your eyessssssss…that pursed, prissy mouth…yummmmmmmmmyyyy—”

 _Holy Hera, she’s positively hammered,_ Abigael thought to herself (ignoring an involuntary toe-curling sensation upon hearing Mel’s words). _Something about a tight blouse and her mouth._ Oh _my._ Suddenly, she had a burst of inspiration, spotting the Aztec chocolate slabs. _Caffeinated sobriety._


	2. Cocoa, Cabello, Confessional

2 Cocoa, Cabello, Confessional

_Same Evening, 10:30 pm, Catavino Tea & Wine House, Rua Lima Whitton da Terra, Madalena Village, Azores_

The Aztec spiced chocolate had worked _wonders._ After imbibing a sip or two, Mel slumped over and took a two-hour nap, drooling on Abigael’s shoulder all the while as the latter parted her hair and kissed her, half affectionately, half in near-exasperation. _Luckily, she’d packed a spare blouse. Also burgundy._

She took note of the drowsy woman’s raven hair, her nondescript blouse, her far-too-austere leggings, and what appeared to be a one-inch-diameter dark marble threatening to spill forth from her pant pocket. _SafeSpace to…here? Why—what on_ earth _—risking exposure of_ their _world—and positively_ smashed _at this hour—oh, ducky…you’ve been a naughty girl…_ her crimson lip curled—

But as she considered their surroundings and what—well, _who_ —she’d left behind, all those weeks ago—whatever earlier vexation she’d had melted away, just like _that._ Those fabrics, she realized with a jolt, mirrored the innermost feelings of her one-and-only. _The dreary world she’d resided in, once her Abi was gone. Even if it was temporary, seeking sanctuary from a now-successfully sidelined ogre._

_It was impossible to be angry with Mel. Ever. She was far too hard on herself as it were._

Noticing a stirring upon her shoulder, Abigael turned. “Awake at last?” she asked in her British lilt, as Mel nodded, standing upright and able to walk quite well for someone who consumed a bit too much coquito for one night. _Was it the Vera family alcohol tolerance or the Aztec chocolate?_

_10:33 pm, 1 st Floor Dance Hall, Catavino Tea & Wine House, Rua Lima Whitton da Terra, Madalena Village, Azores_

However, after descending the stairs, instead of heading toward the exit, Mel grasped Abigael’s hand, steering her toward the crowded first floor dance hall, where Camila Cabello’s “Señorita” boomed from overhead speakers.

_I love it when you call me señorita…_

She threw her sun-kissed arms around Abigael’s slim, porcelain neck, drawing the latter closer, until only millimeters separated their bodies, thrumming and moving to the tempo of the seductive tune, their chests brushing, a _frisson_ of energy bursting forth, causing Abigael to gasp and nearly pull away—

_I wish I could pretend I didn’t need ya…_

Clearly Mel’s energy came from the Aztec cocoa—but Mel didn’t seem surprised to see her—which meant Mel thought she was dreaming. Or in an alternate dimension of her own doing. _How many times had Mel put herself through such dealings? Perhaps too many to count—_

“ _We need to get you home love,”_ Abigael hissed in Mel’s ear, as the latter bit her plump, dark rosy bottom lip, nearly bringing the former to her knees.

_But every touch is ooh la la la…_

“But we’re just getting started,” protested Mel, her hands freeing themselves from Abigael’s neck, traveling further down to her shoulders, chest, _hips,_ even—as she spun the brunette around so that her back was flush with Mel’s curvaceous chest. Abigael suppressed a groan as Mel’s hot breath tickled her pastel, earring-adorned lobe. _Sweet torture, this._

_Ooh, I should be running/Ooh, you keep me coming for ya…_

_Giving in never felt this good—or this right_ —Mel mused to herself, feeling the sinewy length of her would-be lover’s body. _Abigael’s_ angular hips, the smoothness of _Abigael’s_ alabaster thigh, her subtle floral-and-Persephone pomegranate scent Mel secretly adored so much, operating from a caffeinated high that would soon plummet herself into cataclysmic darkness without her wild English rose. _The best dream a girl could ever wish for,_ she mused to herself, as the purest vision of Abigael reached back to tuck a stray raven lock behind. _The Abigael I knew doesn’t know where I am. And even if she did, why would she show up? After all this time?_

_11:45 pm, Rua Lima Whitton da Terra to Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores_

The pair finally ventured in the general direction of home—wherever _home_ was—for Mel insisted on blindfolding Abigael for secrecy’s sake ( _not much changed there_ ), as they walked through countless street corners, now mostly emptied of holiday revelers and merry-makers alike. Laughing, tired, and tipsy, Mel ripped off the blindfold at last, in what appeared a darkened hidden alleyway shortcut, as her lips drew near, and Abigael’s to hers, fusing in a heated frenzy, a sapphic, sultry reunion once more, sparks flying, breathlessly, beautifully, and _wonderfully_ , furiously stealing kisses from the other, both pairs of hands roving, _desperate_ for the other’s heady, feathered touch.

“— _Bed_ —” Abigael mustered finally, summoning all her willpower to do so as Mel continued to rain kisses upon the most sensitive part of her neck. “You’ve—got—to—sober—up—love—"

_12:30 am, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores_

Abigael never fancied genetics research to be a particularly lucrative field compared to being overlord, but based on the condo’s getup, it certainly gave her cause to reconsider, as she took in the modern kitchen, the sleek, crimson ergonomic sofa, the private balcony, and what appeared to be a rather sizable hot tub. _Decorations too,_ she observed, spotting a set of stockings ( _of course, no fireplace_ , due to the tropical climes), a fully-adorned blue spruce Christmas tree, and a sprig of mistletoe hanging above the master bedroom threshold. Far be it for her to imagine the goings-on… _there_. She drew an involuntary shudder. _What on earth possessed her to kiss do-gooder Harold Greenwood when spritely Melonie Vera was herself a hidden treasure of epic proportions? Those curves—those tresses—and that lovely indescribable perfume she always wore, reminding her of plumerias and honeysuckle on a midsummer’s eve…_

Glancing in the direction of the master bedroom, she heard a tussle of sheets and re-entered to find Mel in her RBG-patterned pajamas. _A girl after my own heart,_ she mused to herself, tucking her raven-haired Wonder Woman into bed.

_Even superheroes needed their beauty rest._

“Stay— _please?_ ”

She turned around from the master bedroom threshold, meeting Mel’s eyes, and slowly strode toward the sumptuous bed, sitting atop it. “What is it?”

“Abigael, the last person I think of every evening before I go to sleep is _you—"_ continued Mel, her hand holding fast to Abigael’s wrist so that she couldn’t flee, even if she wanted to. “I miss your gold circular choker glimmering in SafeSpace’s bar, your sardonic wit, your mysterious floral pomegranate perfume that reminds me of the Greek goddess Persephone herself, forever guarding the darkness of the perpetual underworld. I liked our potions sessions—the way your wrist brushed mine—the looks we gave when something bubbled up a certain way—or turned pink. I like your burgundy blouses, your fashion sense, your badassery toppling a misogynistic regime. I like the way your mouth crinkles—how you use the word “sublime” in your sexy Sussex accent—but most of all—”

She paused. “I like—no— _I—I love you—”_ as she promptly turned over, falling into a deep slumber. Gently disentangling herself from Mel’s hand, Abigael found her voice. “Oh, _Mel,_ you’ve certainly given me a lot to think about.”


	3. Rent-Free Ruminations

3 Rent-Free Ruminations

_Next Morning, 10:30 am, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores_

Bright sunlight streamed into the expansive bedroom as she blinked her eyes once, then twice over. _Damn, that was some strong coquito_ , Mel mused to herself as she stood, massaging her throbbing head. Glancing at the bedside table, she found a glass of water and over-the-counter headache medication, and promptly took it. “ _Thanks,”_ she murmured aloud, to no one in particular.

Her dream the previous night had been a vivid one—she recalled sipping coquito after coquito, bemoaning her loneliness over the holidays in a mid-eighteenth century wine parlor especially frequented during the Prohibition era, as legend went— _until a certain female showed up_. She’d taken her to the dance floor to the pounding of the beat, danced with her until they could dance no more, and kissed her furiously in the dark before taking her—

Mel paused. It _had_ to have been a dream.

_Right?_

In no realm of the world was she courageous enough, brave enough, _foolhardy_ enough, to think a woman of _her_ stature and status would want her _,_ Melonie Vera.

_Abigael Jameson-Caine, living rent-free in my head,_ Mel wryly mused to herself as she opened the bedroom door to find herself face-to-face with the very same brunette.

And all of her memories from last night came back, flooding her senses. “Did we—and we _danced_ —” Abigael nodded. “And we— _out back_?” Mel motioned to the side alleyway as the lady hid a sly smile. “Oh God. Don’t tell me I made a lovesick confessional too…” her voice trailed off as Abigael nodded in the affirmative.

_Shit._

“ _That wasn’t supposed to happen—”_ Mel muttered to herself, but Abigael rose, her fingers grazing Mel’s lips as if to silence her momentarily.

“It most certainly _was_ —” Abigael completed the sentence. “Leaving you abruptly was to protect you, and I meant to return—but I wondered—”

“Wondered what?”

“Wondered if you felt the same—wondered if, perchance—” Abigael ran a finger through Mel’s raven hair, “another woman had claimed you—wondered if, after a lifetime of irredeemable behavior, whether I even _deserved_ a chance at love— _redemption—”_

“Everyone’s worthy of love—and forgiveness—within reason,” Mel interjected. And a thought occurred to her. “ _You put a tracer on me, didn’t you?”_

“Guilty as charged, love—”

Instead of being upset, as she very well could have been, Mel realized that Abigael had also tucked her in bed the night before, provided water and medication, and dealt with her petulant drunken self as best she could, fending off all manner of romantic overtures, which was medal-worthy in and of itself, given what she knew of her inebriated behavior from her undergraduate years. _Damn, Abigael had a lot of self-restraint._ “Heh…guess this evens things out a bit?”

Abigael gave a knowing Cheshire cat grin. “It would _certainly_ seem so. Goes without saying, but the tracer was for protection on both ends. I couldn’t very well—” she walked her fingers up to the base of Mel’s visage, “—have a powerful girl spill my darkest secrets?”

“Cunning as always, Abigael—”

“And if you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours—and all that, so the saying goes—” continued Abigael. “Though I’d like to add one extra bit.”

Mel frowned. “What’s that?”

“Well…I enjoy your winsome, witty American company, your spritely ingenuity, and the pointillist fashion in which you pronounce “ _coquito_ ” that simply leaves me _breathless_. I adore your beguiling raven hair and captivating curvaceous form, not to mention your ethereal scent of ripened coconut and freshly-ground nutmeg. But most of all—” Abigael took Mel’s hands in her own, “I love _you,_ Melonie Vera,” she murmured, as they kissed under the mistletoe.

Time stopped for that ineffable moment, that veritable _augenblick_ —and restarted once more, as Abigael again took stock of her tropical urban surroundings. “Now, how about we do a bit of R&R—”

Mel raised an eyebrow, confused. “R&R?”

“Rest and relaxation,” clarified Abigael, “by, say, leading the way to the hot tub down yonder?” as she pointed past the screened porch door to the private balcony.

_Oh._

_Oh my._

“That sounds like an _excellent_ idea,” breathed Mel.


	4. Frieda and Iris, Forever

4 Frieda and Iris, Forever

_Next Morning, 10:30 am, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores_

Mel awoke with a start in the grey-worn shadows of Epicenter Pico’s master bedroom, a tiny figure atop the sumptuous king-sized bed and its myriad textured teal and turquoise pillows, meant to match the hue of the ocean’s horizon in the distance. Pinpricks of rain splattered across the glass-paned window as she blinked and blinked once more.

_Had it all been a dream?_ she couldn’t help but wonder as she drew her knees to her chin. Ever since ascending into her powers, it had been all but impossible to determine what was real, and what was an incredibly lucid dreamscape, or a simulation crystal emulation besides. Those distortions of reality blending into fantasy played tricks on a lonely heart such as hers.

_I should be grateful,_ she remonstrated herself in the next instant. _I have two loyal sisters, an amazing brother-in-law and niece, and I’ve got free room and board on a Portuguese tropical island—_

_Oh, who am I kidding?_ She wiped a stray tear from her visage. _I miss her._

_My Abigael—my mischievously magical, irrepressibly irresistible—Iris—_

_More than words._

It was easier to just assume the worst—that everything had been a fantastical dream. _To avoid disappointment, abandonment, and utter heartbreak._

She sighed, recalling her earlier loneliness and abject despair at facing solitude during such a festive season of holiday celebration, coquito-after-coquito, and the sudden appearance of the woman who had occupied many a thought as of late, morning, noon, and night. The first she thought of upon waking, and the last to live on in her dreams in the gauzy, gossamer twilight that always followed. How she fell asleep on Abigael’s shoulder, knowing that though she was hundreds of miles from Vera Manor, she had finally found home in a person, at long last. 

And _oh,_ that dance! It seemed _so_ real! The feel of her steady shoulders, her delicate bust, the inward curve of her waist, and those _hips_ —and _thighs_ , besides—that had withstood many a monster, propelling her to overlord stardom of the underworld, toppling a once-misogynistic regime. _Her plucky Persephone. Her feisty, fearsome goddess of light and darkness. Her one-and-only._ Not to mention the hot tub too—Mel closed her eyes, reliving the moment Abigael joined her, wearing the slenderest of bikinis, as she herself donned a tankini of the deepest emerald hue.

_Malachite, serpentine, prehenite,_ the British brunette had whispered in that intoxicating lilt, synonyms for evergreen and onyx hues melding, her lithe alabaster steps gliding toward Mel’s positively quivering form, both parties eager and ready for sensuous touch—

_Even if it were a dream, it was perfect for those sweet and altogether scorching moments,_ as she briefly imagined herself in Abigael’s New York apartment thinking back to a secret contract of yore, the beginning of those sixty weekends at her dwelling, those _“Sundays with Scheherazade_ ,” awakening to deep classical compositions of Alexander Scriaben and the sizzle of turkey bacon, scrambled eggs (with ketchup on the side), not to mention a fresh pot of—

“ _Coffee_ —” Mel breathed aloud, as those very same aromas tantalized her senses; flinging the door open, she found the same brunette of her dreams cooking breakfast, looking as _kissable_ as ever.

“Merry Christmas, _Frieda_ ,” Abigael spoke above the crisp and crackle of the pan. _Frieda,_ Abigael’s nickname for Mel, for Frieda Kahlo, Mel realized, her heart soaring. _She remembered—of course she remembered—_

“I couldn’t very well come empty-handed—breakfast is the _least_ I could do—I forgot a present—” as Mel approached her, step-by-padded sock step.

“Oh _Iris,_ ” Mel whispered _,_ as Abigael gasped lightly at the raven-haired beauty’s touch. “You’re the _best_ present a woman could ever ask for.”

-THE END-


End file.
